


Get You, Claim You

by vorkosigan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (i think), A lot of mixed feelings, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Angry Sex, Angst, Armor Kink, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Fix-It of Sorts, Light BDSM, M/M, No Accords Wank, No character bashing, Orgasm Delay, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Probably not SSC or RACK compliant, Rough Sex, Seeking Resolution through Sex, Sub Steve Rogers, This is kinda darker than my usual, happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 14:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12533444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: "Listen. There's no way in hell I'm letting myself do this with you. Unless I'm in my armor," Tony had said, when they'd talked – argued? fought? – about this.Something dark had stirred in Steve at the thought of craving Tony's hands, the feeling of his skin, so much – and then being with him – and never getting touched for real at all. He craved the deprivation. He wanted to burn with need and be left wanting. He didn't know what was wrong with him.





	Get You, Claim You

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in the tags, maybe a bit edgier than my usual. Mind the tags. The first chapter is _pure_ porn, with next to no background story. The second will be mostly porn meets angst-fest, and some background too. Don't expect it up very soon, though, this is just a side project.
> 
> I've had this fic, fully developed, in my head for ages. I kept thinking about it and adding small details, for my own enjoyment. I wasn't going to write it. Then I wasn't going to post it. This one's not soothing. In this one, no one is exactly gentle and everything is shit. (Although they will get to the near vicinity of 'better' towards the end.) No healthy discussions, next to no real heart-to-hearts. The porn is on the rougher side too. I thought the mood was too dark for me, I thought people would except me to write something, well, _nicer_ , with the characters being nicer to each other and to themselves. But, you know what - I've then come to realize I've created those expectations myself, over the past year; if they are starting to make me feel restricted, I have to be one to break them. So here's to tiny victories and minuscule self-liberations.

Steve shivers.

 

It's not the cold, it's the anticipation, he figures, although he _is_ naked. He's handcuffed himself to the head-post with the specially fortified handcuffs Tony had sent him, along with the instructions.

 

_Be handcuffed. Be naked. Wait._

 

This... could be a disaster, he knows that, every fact points towards that. Being left here, handcuffed and naked, on his back, to wait and wait and wait, probably wouldn't be the worst possible option, even. He's left the key on the bedside table, and honestly, he could probably break the handcuffs. He could _certainly_ pull a bar out of the railing and take the bedpost apart. That is, however, not the point.

 

He's naked and he's vulnerable and he's high strung as a guitar string on the verge of snapping. Tony's face keeps coming back to him, a smile that is cold and wry, and the eyes that sear into him – with what emotion, Steve can't guess – despite Tony's attempts at impassivity. And something in Steve's stomach burns and burns, and he loves the goose bumps that spring up on his skin; and he looks down his body and imagines how it must look from the door, how he will look to Tony, if Tony ever shows up. How Tony will see him, almost helpless, probably blushing, semi-hard already, sizzling with shame and anticipation and want.

 

And he shivers. And waits.

 

When the door to the hotel room finally opens, Steve can hear his own sharp intake of breath. On reflex, he tries to sit up, feels the tug of the handcuffs on his wrists, and it's delicious. He hates to admit it to himself, but that's how it is, and he's blushing, he knows he's blushing and it makes him blush even more.

 

"Rogers."

 

The voice is metallic and level and it almost catches Steve by surprise, because he's used to hearing Tony's voice over the comm even when he has his helmet down. Over the comm, it's still Tony's voice. Tony doesn't lift the faceplate now, makes no move to step out of the armor, he's just standing there, near the door, all red and gold and cold. _What's he playing at_ , Steve wonders, and a part of him thinks this was just one big, cruel joke at his expense, but Tony wouldn't do that. (Would he?) And the other part of Steve looks the armor up and down, how slick it is, and impersonal and imposing, and he wants.

 

"You actually showed up." Tony is not moving away from the door, he just stands there, like a door post, like a statue. Looking at Steve. Maybe. (All Steve can say is that the front of the helmet is turned in his direction. The eye-slits are shiny.) Then: "I wasn't sure if we were actually playing chicken or what."

 

Steve's heart flutters in his throat, but he gives Tony a look – direct, daring, unwavering – because if they are actually playing chicken, he sure as hell isn't going to be the one to back down.

 

"Hi, Tony," he says, and maybe his voice is a little dry.

 

He imagines Tony looking him up and down, he can almost feel the searing eyes on his skin. He knows it's all in his head, knows he's getting himself worked up. But Tony's presence is like a shot of something ice cold, so cold that it's almost hot, and it makes your head swim, and Steve hasn't had something affect him like this in ages.

 

Tony moves now, if just to cross his arms across his chest.

 

"I told you this was going to be on my terms or it won't happen," Tony says, and it's so inflectionless, sounds so mechanic that Steve can't be sure there's Tony in the armor at all. What if it's just a remotely controlled shell?

 

_"Listen. There's no way in hell I'm letting myself do this with you. Unless I'm in my armor," Tony had said, when they'd talked – argued? fought? – about this._

_Something dark had stirred in Steve at the thought of craving Tony's hands, the feeling of his skin, so much – and then being with him – and never getting touched for real at all. He craved the deprivation. He wanted to burn with need and be left wanting. He didn't know what was wrong with him._

_He had stood up straighter and hooked his thumbs into his belt and said, as brashly as he could: "I've absolutely no problem with that."_

 

But somehow, somehow, Steve didn't think Tony'd really do it, not like this. Playing chicken again, eh? Well, he was certainly not the one to bow out, from anything, ever. But it's not just that, he knows. And he lets his eyes run up and down the armor, more silvery then it used to be, up and down it's crossed arms, the hands tightly clenched into fists. (Steve can't decide if the stance is defensive or defiant.) Those armored fingers are also silvery, and Steve, feels himself twitch in response, feels a shiver of interest saunter hotly down his spine.

 

"Just get to it," he says, trying to beat his own impulse to hesitate, and it almost comes off as gruff. (Almost as if they were just talking.)

 

"You're actually getting off on this, are you, Rogers." A pause. And: " _Fine_."

 

Tony does come closer, then, sits down at the edge of the bed, curling one leg under him, in a position that is so unthinkingly _him_ that Steve thinks: he must be inside the armor. He must. And still, the idea, the image of Tony, somewhere out there, in his lab, directing the armor from afar, and _watching_ this – Steve feels his cock burning, responding, and he isn't sure which turns him on the most, and he feels his cheeks heat up again; damn cheeks.

 

His eye-slits turned towards Steve's face, Tony leans over, touches his torso. The fingertips of the gauntlet are chilly, smooth, they are light as a butterflies as he runs first one hand and then both up and down Steve's ribcage. Then his whole metallic palms, up and then down in a slow caress. Tony pauses for a second, lets a side of his thumb brush against Steve's nipple.

 

Steve lets out a harsh breath. He has his eyes fixed on the gauntlets that are dancing along his body.

 

Tony inclines his head, just a tad. Lets out a tiny: "Huh." Then takes the nubbin of Steve's nipple between his forefinger and thumb – Steve would be fascinated by the minuscule precision of the armor, he really would, if only he wasn't this shivery, this nervy, this lightheaded all of a sudden. Tony squeezes a little, almost gently, and then, smoothly, he twists. It's not cruel, it's not even really painful, but a cocktail of sensation shoots through Steve, straight to his gut, straight to his cock, and it makes him gasp sharply.

 

He can see his cock twitch; it's hard and red and needy, already, and Tony follows his gaze.

 

Tony lets go of his nipple, after just a fraction of a second too long. "I told you I wasn't going to be gentle. At all," he says. It sounds strangely clinical.

 

Although his hands are high above his head, Steve manages to shrug. "And I said that was fine." His voice is slightly wavery, and not with apprehension. He can still feel his nipple burn, and on one hand it's too sensitive, and on the other it's itching to be touched again, played with. He wants those hands on him, doing _something_ to him – he doesn't even want to know what, doesn't want to imagine it, just wants it to be something Tony wants, _whatever_ he wants.

 

Tony is still now, bent over, both palms on Steve's torso, leaning on him slightly. "What if I told you you need to pick a safeword?"

 

Steve gives him a slow, steady look. "I don't want a safeword."

 

"Don't be an idiot."

 

"I'm fine," Steve says stubbornly.

 

"Nope," Tony says. "Dealbreaker. Pick one or I'm outa here."

 

Steve feels a beginning of irritation – and a stab of apprehension – and tingling of the trill. " _Fine_." He swallows. " 'Parenthesis'."

 

" _Fine,_ " Tony replies. A beat. " _Parenthesis_ , really?"

 

The voice is level, mechanical, but Steve can just imagine Tony's dry amusement under the faceplate, and he just shrugs one shoulder.

 

Tony straddles his legs then; sits. Steve can feel the weight of the suit pinning him down, stretching the muscles of his arms, perpetuating the discomfort that Steve is so hot for, rendering him virtually immobile. He digs it all.

 

Tony puts both his hands on Steve's upper thighs, squeezes for a second, strokes Steve's skin with both his thumbs, roughly. Then he reaches out takes Steve's balls in his palm, as if weighing them. The metal is cold, and Steve shivers in response. Tony squeezes, first gently, then sharper, more decisively. He plays with them for a moment, tugs, keeping it on the verge of discomfort. He lets his other hand hover over Steve's cock for a second, and Steve's cock jumps to meet the metal. Tony hums for a second, or so Steve thinks, although it could be just the whir of the servos.

 

Feather-light, he lets his fingertips slide up and down Steve's now fully hard shaft, and it's crazy, it's excruciating. Steve squirms, needs more pressure, more friction. He's on the edge of what he wants and he's still not getting it. He humps up into Tony's hands, almost involuntarily, but meets only air; frustration spikes in him; and it's sweet. Then it's back to the fleeting, fluttering metal fingertips again, the want building ever higher. Then Tony's thumb catches against the edge of the head, more roughly. A quick, sharp squeeze of the balls, a tug, a twist – Steve draws in a sharp breath as a mixture of pleasure and pain shoots up his cock like an electric impulse and he bucks up again, which just makes the tugging worse. And then, quick as a lightning, and pressing _hard_ , Tony thumb slides up the slit of his cockhead, and a violent shiver passes through Steve, but then it's gone, the sensation is _gone_ , the hands on his cock – both gone, and Steve groans in frustration.

 

Tony is off him in an instant, and with a coldness in his gut Steve wonders if he's just going to walk out – just leave him like this and go. But Tony is just reaching for the lube Steve had left on the bedside table.

 

"Get your legs up," Tony says in clipped tones. "I want to see your ass."

 

Steve does. Feels on display, suddenly. It's a little mortifying, it's a lot thrilling.

 

Tony trails his fingers trough the slit, lingering at the hole, poking, probing lightly, unhurriedly. More, it seems to Steve, in curiosity than with any kind of desire.

 

Then he raises his right forefinger, showing it to Steve.

 

"This," he says levelly, "is metallic and thick and uncomfortable. I'm going to put it up your ass. And I'm not going to be gentle. It's probably not going to feel nice. _Stop_ me now."

 

But Steve just sucks in a hitchy breath and nods. "All right," he says. He feels his cock drip onto his stomach. His leg muscles are taut as strings. He _wants_ this. And he _wants_ it to be _not nice_.

 

"Holy fuck, Rogers," Tony mutters to himself as he lubes up his fingers. " _Fine_."

 

Dripping of the lube down his crack feels like a trail of ice. Steve closes his eyes reflexively. Steve shivers.

 

"Oh no you don't," Tony said sharply. "Keep your eyes open." Steve complies, to find the slits of the helmet staring directly at his face for a second.

 

Then it's even colder against his hole, like a medical an instrument, a probe, and Steve bites his lower lip and does his best to relax. The gauntleted finger feels infinitely hard and infinitely thick, at that moment, as it breaches the muscle rings and pushes in. His insides burn and he fights the reflex to push it out. Tony pauses just for a second, and it'd almost be better if he didn't, if he'd just push in and be done with it. Steve fights opposing impulses – to push it out, to stop this; it's uncomfortable, it's that particular moment he experiences every time, when it takes concentration to remember this would get good very soon. But there is something deeper, darker in him too, something that relishes the very idea of discomfort, that wants Tony to push all the way in, without waiting for Steve to adjust, and then just pull his finger clear, out all the way. He could wait a few seconds, then repeat the process; so that Steve wouldn't have the time to adjust, wouldn't have the opportunity to get over that first, slightly unpleasant, slightly unnerving feeling on the inside. And the very thought makes Steve bite his lip harder, to the point of pain, makes him buck up; he can feel the thought burning, searing deep inside him, and he needs Tony in there, somehow, with his cool metal.

 

"Lie _still._ " And as Tony says it, he places his left palm on Steve's stomach and presses _down_ , and it's so delicious, the pressure, the fact that finally there's something strong enough to actually hold Steve down.

 

And then the finger inside him twists slightly, pressing inwards, as if Tony is screwing it into him. It's an all new sensation then, all new places being touched, stretched. Steve can't help it, he gasp sharply. And he is sure the whole finger must be inside now, but when he looks, he sees it's only in to the second knuckle, which seems impossible, at this moment, seems impossible that something that feels so unwieldy and unyielding inside him could go any further in. Tony gives him a short look, maybe checking on him, so Steve nods, just in case. And then it's pressure again, one quick slide, one burst of discomfort, and it's in.

 

With no hesitation, Tony starts to pull it out then,  but not as slowly. All the way out to the first knuckle, than the little twist again, and it's back in, sharper now, more resolute. He sets a more relentless pace, then, in and out, in and out, not bothering much with subtlety. And it's on the verge of being too much, that cold finger invading Steve's insides, poking, stretching him, carelessly, twisting this way and that. Steve squirms and gasps and feels the _need_ searing through his cock, a need to be touched, as if a touch would assuage these feelings, not just intensify them. And he feels a ghost of that pinch in his nipple, a mild burning  for _something more._ By the clank of the cuffs he knows he's tugging at them, and makes himself stop. It's good that they are sturdy. And at the spot deep inside of him, a more intense burning, a want for a pleasure that is almost there, just a hairbreadth away, and still seems unreachable.

 

Tony's pace isn't punishing exactly, but it's somewhat vigorous now. It's as if, as soon as Steve is on the verge of adjusting, relaxing into it, Tony manages to pick it up, infinitesimally, or to change the angle. Like that paradox of Zeno's, Achilles and the tortoise, racing, racing, and _never quite getting there_ , torturously.

 

And then, when Steve least expects it, Tony shifts the angle again, and curls his finger slightly, and it's there, right _there_ , a starburst, a flood of pleasure, and Steve cries out uncontrollably.

 

"There, huh," Tony says, although Steve isn't paying much attention, really. In his head he can almost hear how Tony would say it in his own voice, self-satisfied and slightly amused. But as it is, it sounds just as mechanical and monotonous as everything else.

 

Tony's stopped moving his finger in and out for the moment; he just lets it sit there, against Steve's prostate, titillating in its promise. And then, a tiny wriggling, very subtle, barely perceptible, so Steve closes his eyes, to focus on it, to catch the uncatchable sensation, to...

 

"Open them!", Tony snaps, sharply, and Steve complies with a gasp. He can feel Tony's palm on top of his stomach, pushing him down, holding him immobile. He can feel the tip of his cock, only millimeters away from Tony's gauntlet. Steve imagines how cold it would be if he could touch it with his cock, imagines how the metal would be too slick for much friction, and the thought itself is already excruciating. He doesn't try, he just lets himself crave for it a little longer

 

The sensation in his ass: now there is no coldness any longer, just the unyielding fullness inside, and the slow, tormenting massage of his prostate that's – he could be mistaken, but – that's getting a bit harder now from second to second, barely perceptibly. A tiny, slow circle after circle, exerting just a sliver more pressure every time. And Steve is distantly aware he is sweating, and shivering slightly, and all he wants is to somehow buck up and impale himself and feel the impac to the full again, but if he lie still, maybe he'll get it eventually, maybe he'll get what he wants.

 

And yes, harder and harder now. Tony is really massaging it, and Steve's insides are on fire, and all he can do is suck in one breath after another and want, want, want.

 

"You like that, eh?" Tony says, but not to himself this time. It seems to be a regular question, so Steve nods.

 

"Would you like me to do it some more?" The query is deceptively mild, but Steve jumps to answer without much thinking, because he doesn't have much thinking left anyway.

 

"Oh, yes," Steve gasps.

 

The pressure eases now, the massage slows, and _no, no_ ; it's all Steve is able to think, to feel, because it was almost _there_ , it was almost what he wanted, and now the sensation is going away.

 

Tony lifts his hand from Steve's stomach then and shows him his index and middle finger. "That's easy," he says, as the pressure on Steve's prostate eases even more, so that it's barely there, an unfulfilled promise of deep pleasure that makes Steve want to scream. "All you need to do is ask me to put two fingers in you. Again, I won't be gentle."

 

They are thick – and bulky – and it's almost scary to think of both of them ripping in and out of his hole, but the thought sends a dark shudder of want down his spine. "Right," he whispers, because his throat feels dry and a little bit like broken glass.

 

And then – impossibly – there's the harder pressure again, against his sweet spot, the soft circles being rubbed into the prostate wall just where the piquant promises turn into the red heat, but _not quite there._ The pressure lifting off his stomach is both a relief and a disappointment, but then Steve loses track of everything else, because his forgotten cock is suddenly held firmly in a gauntlet, palmed and squeezed; it's now too sensitive from neglect, it throbs and it hurts some at the touch. And then Tony is pulling at it, sliding his palm up it, then down, firmly. His hand is dry, but the metal is slick, and the pressure is maybe a bit too much, but Steve _wants_ too much, he wants _all of the_ too much, and then more. And then, on the up-slide, Tony's thumb strokes roughly over the head of Steve's cock, just once, over the most sensitive spot, and at the same time, he presses hard against his prostate with his other hand. The burst of pleasure is so intense Steve sees white for a moment, and he shouts incoherently, and he thinks he's going to come, now, right now, just a...

 

But then – _deprivation, disappointment_ – a cold feeling of being left wanting, left alone, all at once. There is no palm on his cock, no finger against his sweet spot, and then the said finger slides all the way out. Steve tries to follow it, to follow the sensation, but in a second it's all just emptiness. All that is left. The electric pleasure seems like a distant memory, although it burned inside him not a few seconds ago.

 

"That was even better now, wasn't it?" Tony asks, voice mechanical but soft. And Steve knows it even before Tony says it: "You can have the whole package again," Tony pronounces, and lifts his right gauntlet, slick with lube and glistening. He's showing Steve his first three fingers, holding his little one down with his thumb.

 

And it's _too much_ , Steve thinks. It's not so much the thickness itself. If he bunched them together, they aren't that much thicker than a cock, maybe, coming to think about it. But it feels vastly different when it's hard and made of metal. And still, _still_ , the very idea of having all that stuffed into him, the burn, the pain, the pleasure, the cold fire against his prostate,  the cocktail of all that... and that other hand tugging on his cock again...

 

"But like this," Tony adds quickly, still holding his fingers up, parallel to one another. "Side by side." Which is even worse – it's way worse. Steve isn't sure he could take it at all, like that. "And you ask – no, you know what, Rogers, you _beg_ for them. That's when you get a hand on your cock. Two for prostate, three for cock. Yeah?" Tony shrugs his metallic shoulders. "So let's see if you can come on my fingers alone, or how desperate you really are, because," and he wiggles his three fingers again, gives a cheerful wave, "I don't think even you are crazy enough to try this."

 

Steve doesn't think he is either, and he feels apprehension tug at his gut, and he wonders if he should just put a stop to this, just go and jerk off in the bathroom and forget the whole thing, because this is too crazy, it's too...

 

And then there's the cold pressure against his anus again. It's not hesitant this time at all, and Steve gasps sharply as Tony slams his index finger all the way in, filling him. "Back to work," he announces. Steve can feel his prostate ache for contact, thirst for the touch, but the angle is completely wrong. Then Tony pulls the finger almost all the way out, and pushes in again roughly. He sets a pace, not too taxing, but hard – he slams it in and rips it out, missing Steve's prostate on purpose. It burns and it's too much and it's _not enough_. And from time to time, it seems to Steve, he would go close to the prostate, _but then not_. He becomes aware of Tony's left hand, then – the one that was pressed into the underside of Steve's right knee, pressing it into Steve's chest harshly. Tony lets go of the leg now and lets his whole palm ghost over Steve's cock, lighter than a fly fluttering against glass. It's so light that Steve wouldn't even feel it if he wasn't so sensitive, so highly tuned to every point of contact. And as Steve's cock twitches up to meet the palm, Tony snatches it up, so that Steve has to buck up and manages only to brush it with the tip of his cock, just for the second, which makes the burning even worse. Which is probably what Tony aimed for in the first place. His hips falling back to bed, Steve manages to shift the angle on Tony's finger, and it lands deceptively close to his sweet spot. It's more intense than ever now, he's so turned on, so high pitched, so close to the unreachable peak. Tony lets him have it for a second, two, even twists his finger for a moment so that Steve feels the friction, the pressure against his prostate, everything; but in seconds it's gone, and there's just stretch and burn, and the unfulfilled need in his cock. He's so frustrated that he yells, and Tony laughs his mechanical laugh.

 

"Slow down, Cap," he says. "You know what you need to do to get what you want. Not that difficult, eh?"

 

"Okay," Steve whispers again, as if it's the only word he remembers, and then, finding some more: "Yeah. Do it. Okay."

 

The finger slams into him again, so deceptively close to where Steve wants it but very decidedly _not there_. And then Tony almost touches his cock again, torturously, and Steve thinks he's going to cry with frustration. "Okay," he pushes through his teeht. "Two fingers. Do it."

 

Tony slams his finger in again, this time far off the mark, at an angle that's almost painful. He turns his eye-slits toward Steve then. "I said _ask._ "

 

Steve takes a deep breath, and Tony pauses, mercifully, because the sensations in Steve's ass are too good, too bad, too _much_ for him to put his thoughts into words otherwise. "Would you put two fingers. In me?" he manages.

 

"Why, of course, Cap" Tony says, and Steve imagines he can hear a slick grin through the filters. "No problem at all."

 

Unhurriedly, Tony pulls his finger out, reaches for the lube, adds more. And then it's the new coldness against his hole. The muscles are pretty lose by now. Still, the stretchy pain is there, perpetuating the agony of want in his cock. And, true to his promise not to be gentle, Tony chooses to push his fingers in side by side, twisting them first to the one side, then to the other, as he forces them deeper in. Steve catches himself _oohing_  and _aahing_ aloud; bites his lips hard instead. Still, a harsh breath on the verge of a moan escapes his lips, uncontrollable, as Tony pushes them as deep as they would go – _still not touching Steve's prostate_ , which is not okay, not all right, not what was agreed. Steve thinks he probably whimpers in pure frustration then.

 

Tony looks up, the motion of his head is sharp. "Too much?" he asks. "Parenthesis? Cap, you with me?"

 

"I'm fine," Steve manages.

 

Tony pulls his fingers out, then, adjusts the angle, and slams them back in, almost cruelly, straight into Steve's sweet spot, and the bright pain and overwhelming pleasure are so mixed, so confusing, so _much_ , that all Steve can do is yell out. And the flood rises high then, white hot sensations forming a closed circuit between his stretched anus, his prostate, his neglected cock, and he almost comes right then, but by then Tony is pulling out already.

 

Needily, Steve moans, not caring any longer, and bucks up, trying to follow his fingers, to pull them back in, somehow, to suck them into himself.

 

Tony starts fucking him for real, then, hard, robustly, hitting his prostate on each go. Steve feels it build, like a wave that swallows another inch of the strand on each lap, reaching, reaching. And sometimes Tony twists his fingers together, and sometimes they are side by side; he moves and shifts them inside of Steve, all the while fucking him, and Steve is very aware of every additional stretch, of every spot of his inner wall that was previously left untouched, perhaps, but now is thoroughly rubbed and stretched and stimulated. His sweet spot sings with short bursts of white pleasure and pain whenever Tony slams into it. This is when Steve lets go. He's not aware of his arms, stretched painfully above his head. He has no idea where his legs are – it's like they are floating somewhere away, in the distance. All he knows are the sweet, agonizing explosions inside of him, and his cock, that seems thicker than ever, full to bursting, crying for a relief that isn't coming. He lets out a short, explosive breath from the bottom of his stomach every time Tony slams in, and all he can do is lie there, taking it, wanting it, chasing the sensation, but he can't, he can't come; it's almost there, but that makes this torture even worse because try as he might, Steve can't reach it.

 

At some point – he loses the sense of time completely – he hears Tony's voice, seemingly softer than ever, almost a whisper through his voice filters. "It's okay. Relax into it. Ride it out. Let it happen, big guy. You're almost there. Let it happen."

 

Then, never breaking the pace, Tony reaches out with his left hand and pinches Steve's nipple. It's like an electric shock that goes straight into his brain, filling it with shooting stars, but it's still _not enough._ And in a sudden burst of lucidity, it seems to Steve he's too far gone, he can never reach his peak like this. It's just over-sensation, building and building, with no relief in sight, and while a part of him wants to be suspended like this, tormented like this into infinity, he desperately _needs_ to come, to go over the top; he thinks he can't take a second longer. He collects his thought, forcibly distancing himself from all the sensations coursing through his overstrained body. Tries to remember what Tony said.

 

He's pushing words out by sheer force of will. "Do... three... Put three... fingers... in me." He hears Tony's words in his head again: _And you ask – no, you know what, Rogers, you beg for them._ A pause: " _Please._ " He knows it's probably not a good idea, but he doesn't care one bit.

 

At first it seems to him that time has stopped. Then it becomes clear it's just Tony that's frozen in place, his fingers halfway inside Steve. He's not moving. Steve blinks at him. And then the faceplate slides up, the helmet disappears into the armor with a soft _whoosh_ , audible only because the complete silence reigns at that moment. And then it's just Tony, in his armor, all of a sudden, so achingly familiar Steve's heart skips. And he looks flushed and his hair is plastered to his brow with sweat. His eyes are incredibly big, as they stare at Steve's face. He shakes his head.

 

"Holy fuck, Steve," he says, and it's Tony's voice, finally, finally, and he sounds tired and hoarse and just a little bit awed. "Holy _fuck._ Here," he says. He'd been kneeling to the side of Steve, at the level with Steve's hips, so that he'd have good access to Steve's ass.

 

Now, almost gently, he pushes Steve's right leg down – apparently it'd been curled up against his stomach. It's now still bent at the knee, but Steve's foot is resting on the bed (it's an unexpected relief for the muscles). Tony's arm is under it, his two fingers still inside Steve, but now immobile.

 

Tony leans over, and again he says: " _Fuck_ , Steve." And then he bends his head and takes the tip of Steve's cock into his mouth; gently.

 

It's heaven. It's agony. It's white hot shards of volcanic glass as Tony swirls his tongue over and around Steve's head. At the same time Steve wants to tear the handcuffs apart and slam Tony's head down onto him, as far as it would go, all the way to the root of the cock; and also he wants to pull it out and dunk it into a glass of cold milk because it's unbearable, it's been too long, too much stimulation, too much buildup; he can't stand this now, it's too late.

 

He _loves_ the sensation. He feels it reach deep, slide into his bones and stay there. He shudders violently.

 

He makes himself open his eyes, unaware that he's closed them. Tony is sucking – very softly – on the head of his cock. Steve can see the side of his face – it tugs at his heart, painfully, the way Tony's sweaty hair is falling into his eyes as he begins his slow descent.

 

The blowjob is slow and sloppy. On every bob down, it seems, Tony takes more of his cock into his mouth; the inside of his mouth and his tongue is way too hot for Steve to stand, but the saliva is soothing, and the whole process is slick and wet. It's unbearable. It's divine.

 

This is when, amid all the overripe sensation, Steve feels a shy, new pleasure start to build inside him. It can never take over, he thinks. It can never reach high enough, he thinks. He'll never come. He's slowly becoming aware of Tony's fingers, still inside him. They are almost still now, just filling him, but they are resting against his prostate wall, and then they begin their slow circling again, the tender massage. Tony's head still bobs up and down on him, never changing pace. The light sucking never gets harder. The lines of stinging fire inside his cock are all Steve knows for a time, although he supposes the dry, heaving breaths he hears must be his own.

 

It keeps building. But it's different then before, it's building in all the parts of him now, simultaneously, his ass, his cock, his toes, all of his body. He closes his eyes and lets it overtake him, and then something clamps on the tip of his cock – it's Tony's gag reflex,  he realizes distantly. Tony has swallowed him whole,  he's all the way in Tony's throat; it's either the sudden contraction or this realization that send him over the edge.

 

The pleasure is unbearable. The orgasm shakes him and breaks him and he keeps coming and coming in Tony's mouth. Distantly, some part of his brain register the cum leaking out the corners of Tony's lips, although he keeps swallowing diligently. Sucking Steve through orgasm, sucking him through the aftershock. The surges of sweet pain are shaking Steve's body over and over again, and it seems this orgasm will never stop.

 

But still, impossibly, after ages and ages, the spasms seem to pull further apart, and a languid peace begins to take over his body. He knows he's still in Tony's mouth, sweet and wet and comfortable. All the strength leaves him. He feels himself start to drift off. And he lets it happen.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter leaves all the questions open; I'll answer them in the second chapter, or try. The angst is there too.
> 
> Please drop a comment or leave kudos if you enjoyed it, and thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Also, I have [tumblr](https://the-vorkosigan.tumblr.com/), so find me there if you like.


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